Page 53 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Oh … um … morning,’ she flusters, blinking frantically. Her keyboard is imprinted in her face, giving her this strange pink tattoo across her left cheek. ‘I was just … er … clearing up our database.’

Strangely, ‘clearing up our database’ is something Beatrice only ever does when she’s suffering from a hangover. And even more strangely, it seems to be something she can do with her face on the desk and her eyes closed.

Hastily stifling a yawn, she takes a sip of her Berocca, which is fizzing merrily away on her desk. Lying next to it is her copy of Vogue, which she reads on the bus into work. Or at least that’s what she wants people to think. And I used to think that too, until I borrowed it one lunchtime and discovered her guilty secret: a copy of a science magazine tucked away inside.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, looking at her with concern. Her usually rosy cheeks have a greyish pallor, and her blue eyes are blood-shot.

‘Yes, fine.’ She winces, massaging her temples.

‘Because I’ve got plenty of paracetamol,’ I offer, reaching for my family-size bottle.

She flinches at the noise. ‘No, it’s fine, honestly,’ she whispers, getting shakily up from her chair and walking unsteadily over to the coffee machine. ‘Just a little delicate. I think it might have been those mini-quiches.’

‘Or the champagne,’ I add teasingly.

She looks at me, chagrined. ‘Oh dear, I did get rather sloshed, didn’t I? I hope I didn’t do or say anything silly.’

Without warning my mind flicks back to yesterday afternoon and her speech about time travel and I’m tempted to share my secret with her. Maybe she can help shed some light on how or why this is happening to me. Either way, it would just be a relief to tell someone.

‘Well, there is one thing—’ I begin.

‘No, stop, don’t tell me.’ Putting out her hands to defend herself from what I’m about to say, she squeezes her eyes tightly shut as if she’s going to be walloped by some great big embarrassing faux pas. ‘It’s about Patrick, isn’t it?’

‘Patrick?’ I stop my thoughts mid-track. ‘Who’s Patrick?’

‘The journalist I introduced you to,’ she reminds me. ‘You know, the super-hot chap who was married.’

Suddenly I realise Beatrice wasn’t just tipsy; she was well and truly hammered. Beer-goggles, or in Beatrice’s case champagne-goggles, can be the only explanation for turning the shiny, pink-faced Patrick I met into a ‘super-hot chap’.

‘No. Why? Should it be?’

She blushes, her neck prickling with bright crimson splodges. Opening one of her large blue eyes, she looks at me woefully. ‘I’m afraid after you left I got rather …’ she swallows hard ‘… flirtatious.’

‘I see.’ Though I don’t, not really.

‘And then his wife appeared.’

‘Ouch.’ I wince.

‘From nowhere. Poof. She was there, right in front of me, in a Pringle sweater.’

‘Ah, yes, the semi-professional golfer, I remember now.’

Beatrice hangs her head in shame. ‘I know it was terrible of me. I knew he was married. And I wasn’t going to do anything. It’s just …’ She pauses and lets out a sigh. ‘Oh, Charlotte, do you think I’m ever going to meet anyone?’

She looks so utterly crestfallen I really feel for her. ‘Of course you will,’ I say, giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’re sweet and kind and super-smart—’

‘But that’s just it,’ she stops me. ‘When it comes to a girlfriend, men don’t want super-smart.’

‘That’s not true,’ I argue.

‘Men want women who spend money on clothes and make-up and shoes, not three thousand pounds on a telescope,’ she continues, pouring out a fresh brew into two cups.

‘Trust me, men don’t care what you spend money on, as long as it’s not their money—’ I break off. ‘You spent three thousand pounds on a telescope?’ I ask in astonishment.

‘Yes, I found it on eBay. Oh gosh, Charlotte, it’s just amazing,’ she gushes, coming to life, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘It’s Meade’s all-new LX200R telescope with advanced Ritchey-Chrétien optics.’

‘Um … is that good?’ I ask uncertainly.